


And Then We Ran

by bakerstreetashtray



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century
Genre: Fluff, I Believe in Sherlock Holmes, Johnlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-20 14:41:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 15,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakerstreetashtray/pseuds/bakerstreetashtray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been 'returned' for several weeks, when he takes on a seemingly open-and-shut case. Of course, nothing is ever as it seems and once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, is the truth.. isn't it?<br/>The sketchy circumstances surrounding the case begin to test the very foundation of Sherlock and John's friendship, not to mention threatening the Detective's freedom. </p><p> </p><p>baker-street-ashtray.tumblr.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Scream of A Hot Bow

It began with the scream of a violin.

 

Mary and I were still in bed, laying atop the covers in the mid-July heat and groaning as the offensive twanging reached our ears. It must only have been 8 in the morning, and we'd been to the pub the night before. Neither of us were in the best mood, and Mary immediately clamped a pillow over her head, as if trying to suffocate herself. I chuckled.  
"Go on then." She sighed, her words muffled until she lifted the pillow, her face a grimace as she looked at me. "See what he wants."  
And I kissed her on the cheek, swung myself out of bed and pulled on my pyjama shorts, still smiling.

It faded from my lips as I walked, disgruntled into the living room. Of course, he was already bloody dressed. A suit - at eight in the morning.  
I had to raise my voice above the terrible scraping of the bow, and when he turned, it was obvious from his smug smile and bright eyes that he'd done it to wake me up. 

"What is it?" I ask with a resigned sigh, half leaning in the doorway, my arms folded self consciously across my bare chest.

In his defense, aside from the few mornings before, he hadn't been like this for weeks. Since his return a couple of months ago, he'd been better than I expected; better than I ever would have hoped of him. He even got on with Mary. Well, sort of.  
 _She helped put me back together_ , I had to explain to him.  _You left me alone, you bloody bastard. So alone. I wanted to top myself, and end what was left of my pathetic life. Do you realise that? Did you even understand - did you even think of me, at all? Of course you didn't._  
That was our first civil conversation. After his apologies and my fists flying at him, and my yelling. God, so much yelling. I must have been hoarse for a week.  
 I knew it wouldn't get better straight away; knew that it couldn't. Things were different now. I had Mary and we were engaged and she was living at the flat. 

Still, he moved back in. Assured me that nothing like it would happen again, and I took his word with a shake of my head and a shot of whiskey. I was happy to have him back though. God, was I. More than I would have admitted to him, or Mary, come to that.

 

The first few weeks, he was as good as gold. Honest to God. He made us tea on a regular basis, kept his violin to a low volume in the early evenings, and played the classics for Mary, who seemed to be warming to him. After his great hoax, the street outside was stuffed with paparazzi; we couldn't even get out for milk and bread from the shop. The cases began to flood in too, as if his trickery was proof of his intellect. Well, he knew what I thought of that. The bruise on his cheekbone flowered for weeks. 

As the hysteria surrounding Sherlock began to die down, so did his patience and general well-meaning attitude. His scathing comments returned, and he and Donovan now exchanged a near constant stream of insults when on a case. Sometimes, he'd even turn on me, though that was rare, considering what had happened. More often it was Lestrade, and God forbid if Anderson should approach.  
This week especially, he'd been bloody awful.   
The temperatures in London had been hitting thirty degrees, and we'd all been suffering from the heat. The flat was like a sauna, and I must have been through three or four work shirts in the space of a couple of days, thus is the bloody marathon that we end up running with every case. Mary was lucky. She worked with a banking firm in the city centre, and got to bask in the air conditioning whilst I sat around with Sherlock and his sour restlessness, waiting for a case to interest him.

 

He was looking at me, and I suddenly realised that I'd been lost in my thoughts, shaking my head. From his jubilant expression, I felt a hopeful twinge that we'd actually bloody found something, and raised my eyebrows.

Sherlock grinned, and drew his bow across the violin one last time, a keening note of victory.  
"A  _case,_  John. Get dressed."


	2. The Pirthsee Case

As John totters back down the hall to dress, I lay down my instrument and begin to hunt for my shoes, eager to get started.  
  
My suit is sharply cut and black with navy detail, but already I am sweating. The blasted heat of the summer seems determined to force me into shorts and yet I will not be swayed. It is commonly known that I'd rather leave the flat naked than dressed in such loosely fitting children's clothes, or at least, it should be.  
Nevertheless, I am prepared for the sweltering heat; the client has asked to meet in a pub and whilst I would usually not oblige, the promise of air conditioning seems to call to me like an island siren. Following this, if the woman is deemed worthy of my assistance, John and I will be heading to the morgue; the home of the dead always pleasantly cool.  
With a frustrated sigh, I throw my arms up, unable to find my shoes in the apocalypse of domestic mess that John and  _his girlfriend_ seem to leave in their wake.  
Settling for a different pair, I swiftly pull the violin into my arms again and begin to play with a violent ferocity that is sure to bring John running. Impatience, I have been told, is not a virtue.  
"Alright,  _alright_!"  
The corner of my mouth quirks, and moments later we are out of the front door, John in his ever familiar state of harried untidiness.

 

 

~

Anne Pirthsee is a wry old woman, and everything about her screams  _detail_.  
Her hair is artfully coiffed at the edges and each grey hair carefully combed into place. She wears minimal make-up, but clearly tries to emphasise dull brown eyes and hide the onset of crinkling lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes. No jewellery, no other adornments. Her clothes are clean and smoothly cut, a short sleeved cardigan and knee length skirt, both in shades of pastel.   
I make my impression of her in the first six seconds, before John introduces us and we take our seats at the table, shaded by a cedar tree. A terrible choice; no air conditioning. John begins his usual lines of enquiry as I listen. I document. I take what I can, and I deduce.  
Mrs. Pirthsee discusses finding her husband Thomas' body in great detail, pleading with John to believe her that it was not a suicide. I cannot say until I have seen the body. She does not address me, but occasionally glances in my direction, seeming perturbed by my cool expression. They often are. John drinks beer and I drink a glass of iced spring water, grateful that the woman at least chose to sit in the shade. I am bored now. We have spoken all we can about the circumstances of the death, and now I itch to see the body. I remark on Mrs. Pirthsee's lack of a wedding ring, merely implying that such a gesture suggests a detachment from her late husband. Of course, she takes terrible offence. John manages to talk her around, and we two make our excuses and leave.  
Thank Goodness.

 

~

"How are you liking being back then, Sherlock?" Molly quips, and I give her a tight smile. I have been making an effort to be more pleasant to her, considering the enormity of her help with my hoax. Still, she should know better than to speak to me when I'm working, and I don't answer. John apologises on my behalf.

Thomas Pirthsee's body is cold under my hands, the skin already beginning to fade to a translucent purple. Molly pleaded with me to wear gloves, but I was impatient and merely tossed them onto the table. There is only so much damage that one can do to a dead body, anyway. I examine, and I look. I check for things that others would not think to look for and I make hypotheses and prove them correct in my own mind. All the while, John stands opposite me, his own blue eyes focused intently, using the best of his medical knowledge - but still, provides little insight. He can't help it. I still appreciate his company. More than ever, since the hoax.  
Molly loiters, and I try not to let it irritate me.   
"Not a suicide." I say finally, my voice crisp. "The knife wound would very clearly be tilting just a few degrees left. Not self-inflicted, too difficult."  
"We did actually-" Molly begins, leaping to the defense of her department, and I cut her off with a single hand.  
"And no weapon found at the scene. Obvious."  
"But Mrs. Pirthsee-"  
"Was not the accomplice." I interject again, already tiring of these pointless suggestions. "What would she gain from reporting it as a murder? Similarly, she's a rather clever woman. I do expect she'd know to leave the knife beside the body, don't you, Molly?"  
I've offended her. She stalks away with a tight smile and begins analysing some notes.  
"Christ, Sherlock. Stop." John mutters, looking at me chidingly and I roll my eyes before continuing.  
"It wasn't the knife that killed him. Very clearly inflicted after death."   
John's eyebrows shoot up and I continue. "Soon after death, so as not to arouse suspicion."  
"And the real cause of-" John begins, and I cut him off, leaning forward. I position my hands around Mr Pirthsee's throat, as I had done a few minutes before, and tilt the corpse forwards, indicating a small area at the nape of the neck. It is half hidden by a smattering of hair and freckles, but still, I know that John sees them after a few moments; the marks from the injection.  
"Wow." John says, his voice breathless. I stand a little straighter, and can't seem to keep the smile from my lips at his wonderment, still as welcome as ever.  
"Christ, Sherlock."

 

~

After recounting our findings back to both Lestrade and Anne Pirthsee, we make our way back to the flat. I am still basking in the light of my correct deduction, and yet the heat makes me irritable. Luckily, John's _girlfriend_ is not home from work yet.  
The first time I set eyes upon her, I realised rather sickeningly that this one was different. They already seemed to have been together for several months, perhaps closer to a year, and she knew far too much about me. A comfort, then. John had explained as much. I could not blame him for his feeble attempt to replace me, and yet it still caused me anguish. Not least because she appeared to take up so much space. Space for toiletries, space for clothes. Space for her own laptop. Space for new sofa cushions - were those _necessary_?  For Goodness sake.  
Sitting in my armchair, I sigh in my heated discomfort as I roll up my shirtsleeves and tilt back my head, the little breeze coming in from the window doing nothing to cool me. John is cooking in the kitchen, and it smells like spiced chicken.   
We while away the evening this way, and he forces me to eat. I recall his shock at my weight loss after the hoax with a wry smile.  
Finally, I lay down my fork and saunter back to my armchair, John shooting me a pointed look as I reach for my violin.  
At that moment, the phone rings. They've had a landline installed in my absence, and I can't seem to get used to it. I make no move to answer it, and begin to draw my bow across the strings.  
"I'll get it then, shall I?" John is irritated, and his fork falls with a clatter as he heads to the handset and answers, still chewing his dinner as he speaks.  
"Yeah. Yes, that was us. Pirthsee. Yeah." He sighs, though he seems to tense a moment later, eyebrows raising as he turns to fix his eyes on me. "Oh. God. Of course, yeah. We'll come - first thing in the morning? Ok. Wow.  Yeah. Ok. Thanks, bye."  
I pause with the bow, raising an eyebrow.  
"That was Lestrade."     _Obviously_.   "Mrs. Pirthsee's been found dead."

 


	3. Just Like A Child

The next morning over breakfast, Sherlock's excitement was practically indecent. He appeared to be extremely restless, alternating between tapping his fingers on the table and jumping up to pace, and Mary kept shooting me looks over her toast.  
"Sherlock," I said finally, "Have a bit of respect, would you? The poor woman's bloody dead." I paused, pursing my lips into a flat line as he seemed to ignore me completely. "And besides, the morgue won't open until 9."  
He'd cursed me vehemently the night before for not demanding we be allowed to see the crime scene. I'd felt like hitting him, rolling my eyes as he threw his arms out like a child, before rolling onto his side on the sofa to sulk. I was exhausted, and the heat didn't help. Mary had laughed when she'd come home from work, and I let her drag me off to bed, not feeling the least bit guilty for leaving him alone.  
Well. Maybe a bit.  
"Don't you see, John?" He was saying now, his dressing gown flapping about his knees, face animated and gleeful as he spoke.  
"We could have a double murder on our hands. Oh, yes. I  _love_ these."  
" _Sherlock."_ I glanced at Mary, who merely smiled and patted my hand. "It's fine." She said quietly. "I'm getting used to it."  
He shot her a look that I probably wasn't supposed to see, and it wasn't pleasant. 

 

 

~

He dragged me from the flat at precisely 8.45, barely giving me a chance to kiss Mary goodbye. And even then, he scoffed, standing and rolling his eyes at us. It was another blindingly hot day outside, and riding in the cab was almost torture. I was irritable, his childish behaviour finally beginning to grate on me and I snapped as he began talking about the case again.  
"What's your problem with Mary?"  
Sherlock answered almost immediately, though his blue eyes remained icily fixed forwards, his tone clipped.  
"Problem? I have no problem."  
"Okay. Right. Whatever you say." I shook my head, running a hand through my hair as it threatened to stick to my forehead. "Bloody liar."  
He remained quiet for a few moments, never meeting my gaze, though his jaw was taut throughout the silence. And then we arrived at the morgue, and he was pushing me out of the cab, his thoughts on the case spilling out of him again, as was his nature.

 

~

Only eight minutes later, we were emerging from the cold underbelly of the hospital into the sunshine, and I breathed a sigh of relief.  
"I knew it." Sherlock was saying, a smugness saturating his tone. "Didn't I say it was a double murder? Oh, this is getting  _interesting_."  
Anne Pirthsee had the same marks on the nape of her neck as her husband, though her official 'suicide' seemed to be through an overdose of prescription painkillers and alcohol.  
"We met her yesterday, Sherlock." I said quietly, glancing around as if willing him to have a little bloody restraint, seeing as compassion seemed completely beyond him. "She was a nice woman. Stop celebrating her death, for Christ's sake."  
Sherlock paused for a moment, as if he'd been about to go off into another rant on the case details. Likely about how the painkillers and alcohol had  _so clearly_ been administered after death, though he'd already treated me to that one in the morgue.  
Instead, he stopped and looked at me.  
"You're not happy with me."  
"Mm. Yeah. Great deduction." I had a strange sense of de ja vu from before. Before Mary. Before the hoax. Before all of it.  
He didn't apologize for anything. I wasn't particularly surprised.  
"Well, do tell me when you've stopped being so childish." He replied crisply, climbing into the front passenger seat of a hailed cab.  
 _Hah! Childish? Me? Oh - the irony._  
"What are you doing?" He called after me as I began to storm away, up the street and around the front of the hospital. My reply was through gritted teeth.  
"Walking home."

~

When I finally got home - and it must have taken me a good forty five minutes, Sherlock was stood in the living room and attacking his violin with his bow, wearing only a pair of long pyjama bottoms. Well, I thought, it's better than a sheet. Or nothing. Still, I felt a slight pang at the sight of him, all bloody smooth skin and pale angles. I shook my head and put it down to jealousy, forcing my way past him into the kitchen. I'd be cooking dinner again, as per usual. I'd only known Sherlock cook a few times since I'd known him - the most memorable being the night of his return. Mary had left us to talk, and I'd already given him a split lip.  
He'd tried to make me beans on toast when I remarked that I felt sick. Of course, that wasn't the reason that I felt sick, and out of sheer spite I left the burned bread and somehow charred beans on the plate, still shaking with anger at what he'd done.

After a few minutes, I'd already put the hot water for the pasta on to boil, and could hear voices in the living room. Mary wouldn't be back for another hour at least, and so I was curious. Ducking my head out, I was faced with Lestrade and smiled. He didn't return the sentiment and instead lowered his eyes somewhat sheepishly.  
Instantly, I was on alert, glancing at Sherlock who was stood idly dragging a finger along his bow.  
"What?" I said anxiously, eyes flicking back to the D.I. "What is it?"  
"I have a search warrant, John." He answered me quietly, unfolding the sheet of paper and presenting it to me with an apologetic frown. "We have reason to believe that.." Greg glanced in Sherlock's direction. "- that there might be some.. _involvement_..with the Pirthsee case."

 

~

 


	4. Compromising Loyalties

From the second Lestrade had walked in, after his tentative rap on the door, I had deduced exactly what his purpose here was.  
I imagine that combining the much folded, crinkled warrant in the Detective Inspector's hands - likely a result of his indecision in coming to them, and his sheepish expression would have similarly lead to the same conclusion for a lesser mind.  
I purse my lips and pluck at my bow as John confirms my suspicions, though as of yet I have not considered how I might possibly have been indicted for this crime. Or perhaps, both crimes.   
"What the hell are you talking about?" John asks, angry and breathlessly incredulous. Touched by his loyalty, I lower myself to perch on the arm of the chair, my eyes still on my instrument.  
"Please don't make a fuss, John." Lestrade pleads, glancing behind him to motion in a few officers, who immediately begin to sweep the flat, hands tearing open drawers and cupboards, boots thundering across the hardwood floor.   
"Don't make a - Greg! For God's sake, can't you at least tell me why? What's going  _on?_ "  
"John." I speak finally, and gesture for him to sit down. And perhaps calm down. "Perhaps a simple misunderstanding." I add, and lift my eyes to Lestrade's. His reluctant gaze tells me all I need to know. Not a mistake, then. A combination of some fact, some plethora of evidence - has led to me. And yet, I feel calm. 

  
"I won't bloody sit down." John yells back, his face exasperated as he paces, trying to follow what each officer is doing.  
"I can't tell you anything. Not until we've... we might find something." Lestrade gestures apologetically with open arms, his expression truly remorseful, and I have to stifle a snort of laughter.   
Amazing, how one's loyalties can be compromised by mere protocol.  
"It's just procedure." The D.I adds, "And we probably won't find-"

  
"Sir!"  
The shout comes from the kitchen, and two officers push back through the door, earning themselves my attention, as well as the attention of Lestrade, John and momentarily the other officers.   


By way of explanation, the younger officer holds up a polythene bag, through which, six full syringes are visible.   
I have never seen them before in my life, and yet it immediately clicks into place that I am being rather expertly framed.  
 _Oh, wonderful._  
Several pairs of eyes swivel to look at me. The most worrying look is the one that John is giving me; a mixture of sheer shock, disbelief, doubt and confusion.   
 _Not you_ , I want to say, something sinking inside of me.

 Instead, I tilt my chin and meet the Detective Inspector's eyes, my gaze cool and my fingers steepled at my lips.


	5. Doubts

 

Three hours later, I am sat in his armchair, my head in my hands. 

The arrest passed in a horrible, nauseating blur.  
Greg had to have two officers hold me back as they cuffed him and led him from the flat, and all the time I was demanding answers, yelling for Sherlock to look at me, to explain. He couldn't, or wouldn't.  
As they walked, I could hear Greg resignedly reading him his rights and I strained even harder against the arms of the two men keeping me where I was, my heart sinking.

_'You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.'_

"No - SHERLOCK!"  
My words had been met with the slamming of the front door and a few moments later, the screaming siren of the first squad car as it pulled away. The officers finally released me with a wordless warning, and they too headed for the door.

Pacing across the room to snatch up my coat, I had been halfway down the stairs when Mary returned, her dismay written on her face.  
"It's all over the news.." She uttered quietly, her coat and hair wet as she tried to guide me back to the flat. I didn't move, and her expression took on a pleading edge. "Please, John?"   
My eyes had been fixed on the door still, my hand tight around the bannister.   
"There's nothing you can do for him tonight, is there? Come back inside. Please? Please."

~ 

The bowl of pasta sat uneaten on the table in front of me. Mary had cooked eventually, but I knew I wouldn't be hungry - couldn't be hungry, until this horrible mess was sorted out.   
 _It can't be true. Well, of course it bloody isn't_ , I told myself, fingers tapping restlessly on the arm of my chair.  _Someone's set Sherlock up. They've planted the evidence._  
But it couldn't just be the syringes, I knew. Greg would have needed more, much more to actually arrest him. The idea sent a chill through me, and I wasn't entirely sure whether I was scared for Sherlock, or scared for myself, scared that I've been wrong about him. I dismissed the latter as soon as it crossed my mind, disgusted at myself.

I rang the station, almost immediately after Mary had brought me back into the flat.  _Don't come in,_  Greg had said, his voice apologetic but authoritative. 

_You can see him tomorrow.  I can't tell you anything else. Really - John, I can't. I'm sorry._

_~_

Mary sat with me, in front of the television that repeated the same few clips, the same cycle of speculation on Sherlock's arrest. Outside the flat, reporters had gathered and the steady hum of excited voices reached me where I sat. Eventually, Mary spoke somewhat reluctantly, giving voice to my deepest fears.  
"Are you absolutely _certain_? That he couldn't have done it, I mean?"  
I met her gaze and pursed my lips into a frown. I tried to force myself to remember that she hadn't known him like I had; that she hadn't been there for all the bloody Moriarty stuff, when his morality was questioned for the first time. His reputation dragged through the mud.  
"Yes."  
But I wasn't certain. And of course, she saw that - she knew me, after all.  
"He was gone for three years, John." Her words were quiet, and the reminder hit me like a punch in the chest, as it always did.

 I looked away, and she continued. "People.. change. That kind of isolation.. being by himself for so long.. I.. I don't know."  
 _You don't know him anymore,_ she was trying to say. _He could have done this_. I close my eyes, uncomfortable with the thought.

I needed to see him, to hear him reassure me. To hear his scathing explanation of exactly how such a stupid mistake was made.  
 _Tomorrow,_ I thought,  _seems so bloody far._  
  
Finally, we went to bed and Mary put her arms around me.  _At least this time_ , I thought, _I'm not  totally alone._  
Of course, I didn't sleep.

 

~


	6. The Evidence

My cell is almost infuriatingly bare, and for the majority of the night I have merely lain still on the rubber mattress. I have not slept.   
I cannot help but feel disappointed that John has heeded the words of Lestrade and stayed away.

It is today that I will see him, and for his own sake, I hope that he does not doubt me. Of course, I have a plan.   
One cannot expect to be cooped up like a battery hen and not perform as such. My mind has been calculating and strategizing throughout the night. I listen, I observe.

They have let me keep my clothes, though I feel filthy after a night in them. I doubt they will allow me to change, and yet I hope rather aimlessly that John brings another set. Tomorrow, I will be sent to Pentonville prison and processed, to remain there awaiting my trial.  
This is merely a holding cell; though I most certainly do not intend to make it to jail. I am calm.  
I breathe a heavy sigh as I lay, my fingers entwined on the flat of my stomach. I keep my eyes closed, and I recount my interrogation with Lestrade yesterday evening.

~

I notice that he seems reluctant to even enter the room with me, and I roll my eyes, leaning back slightly in the hard-backed plastic chair that has undoubtedly held many a miscreant or criminal. Eventually, he sits opposite me, a rather large metal table between us.   
I am still handcuffed, and I find it rather belittling; though of course, my morality and innocence are already in question here.  
Clearly, I may also have developed a tendency for attacking police officers in the week since I have seen the Detective Inspector.

"Don't look at me like that." He begins, running a hand wearily over a stubbled jaw. "I had no choice, Sherlock."  
"Spare me." I say coldly, fixing him with a look that I hope conveys my irritation. The apologies from Moriarty's set-up are still fresh in my mind, and yet here I am again, the object of public doubt and scrutiny.  
"There isn't-"   
I turn my head impatiently, and let my eyes close for a mere second, impatience evident in my features. He stops talking and sighs, instead pressing a tape recorder. 

"Interview with Sherlock Holmes by Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. It is 8.56PM on Wednesday the 14th of November, 2012."  
"Just give me the _evidence._ " I hiss, already tiring of such tedious bureaucracy. Lestrade places his forearms on the table and leans forward, his tone fervent as he speaks.

"Of course, you know about the syringes at the flat-"  
"Planted." I interject crisply, "Obviously."  
"Your prints were all over Tom Pirthsee's body."  
I roll my eyes, as if the answer is glaringly evident.  
"I didn't wear gloves. Molly can testify."  
Lestrade begins to shake his head. "She swears that she gave them to you to wear. Claims that she wouldn't have let you touch him, otherwise."  
Of course, I think. She couldn't have seen my hands from where she was stood. And similarly, I am not usually as lax about contaminating my cases. One unfortunate fluke, timed rather perfectly for my adversary. However, in some ways, it is rather refreshing that Molly does not doubt my professionalism. 

I sigh in frustration and grit my teeth. "Next."  
"You were the last to see, and speak to, Mrs. Pirthsee."  
The words leave my mouth almost immediately, curt and impatient. "Utterly irrelevant. Next."  
I sense that this is the final and perhaps most damning piece of evidence, and has probably led Lestrade to hunt for the syringes.  
"The shoes."  
I am rather caught off guard. _The shoes?_  
"What?"  
"The shoes in your locker."

I had claimed a locker for myself at Scotland Yard a few months earlier, finding it irksome to drag spare clothes back and forth with me to change into after particularly messy experiments and hypotheses. I detest riding on the tube, and had discovered the reluctance of the taxi drivers to take a man covered in blood or other fluids, despite the generous fare that he may offer.

But shoes? I would never keep shoes at the station.   
Utterly pointless; I own three pairs of shoes, all black, and thus any untoward stains would be unnoticeable. I smile.  
"How interesting. I never put any shoes in my locker." 

~ 

I stand, and I wash my hands. My legs ache from lack of use and I cannot abide laying back down. I shake my hands off into the sink and begin to pace, still going over my supposedly damning evidence in my mind.  
Of course, if it cannot be easily explained away, then it has been fixed to try and ensure my conviction.

I ponder for a moment who could possibly gain from seeing me imprisoned, but I abandon the line of inquiry almost as soon as it comes. 'Every serious criminal in London', would be the answer. Perhaps even some that I have already inconvenienced. Perhaps a case that I neglected to take, or a potential client that I inadvertently offended.

It happens rather often, or so John tells me.

At a dead end, I let my thoughts travel back to Lestrade's interrogation and idly lean against the wall. I need a cigarette.

~

He returns, having left the room for a few moments at my rebuttal, and in his hands is a thick polythene bag, tied with a thin looping of wire. Inside, are a pair of my shoes. Unmistakably mine - and, rather obviously, the pair that I was searching for two mornings ago. 

So they were taken, tampered with and put back into my locker, which Lestrade must then have ordered to be searched. Probably before the raid on the flat; I rather imagine he thought me too intelligent to hide evidence there. Before the discovery of the syringes, that is. I remember John's expression and purse my lips, feeling an ache. 

"They have everything from the Anne Pirthsee crime scene. Same carpet fibers. Two hairs of hers, and one from the cat. Dust from the extension they were having built." He shakes his head and places the bag carefully on the metal desk. My fingers twitch behind my back, itching to examine them and find whatever  _they_  have missed.   
"It's practically concrete. Help me out here, Sherlock." Lestrade finishes, his eyes fixing on mine, as if desperately asking me to prove him wrong. 

I do, but of course he doesn't listen.

"They were stolen from me. Contaminated and placed in my locker." My voice is flat, and I am aware that they will not believe me.  
I change tack, frowning. My voice is an octave lower and I look away.  
"I want to see John."  
Lestrade nods and sighs, defeated. "Tomorrow." 

~


	7. A Coded Visit

The morning I was due to visit Sherlock, I woke up at 7AM. Though, I wasn't sure if I'd actually been sleeping at all.  
Mary was already up and getting dressed, and she shot me an apologetic look. She was on an early shift today, though I could tell that she'd rather stay. But then, coming to the station with me probably wouldn't end well. Sherlock would be looking for people to unleash his frustration on, and I wouldn't put Mary in the midst of that. 

I knew already that I wouldn't be able to get to the station until 9, but the hours passed painfully slowly. Mary and I had a quick breakfast together, though I didn't eat more than a couple of bites of toast. Even my tea tasted bland in my mouth, and I just couldn't rid myself of the bloody  _wrongness_ of it all. 

Kissing Mary goodbye, I began to pace the flat. His things were still here; the violin, the bloody mess from his experiments, and his books and notes. His laptop had been taken by the police. I already knew that he'd be transferred soon, to one of the bigger prisons in London until his trial, but I packed a change of clothes for him anyway. The thought of a trial made me sit down and bring a hand to my forehead.  _This has all happened so quickly,_  I thought.  _I still can't.. It can't be true.  
_ Finally, I left the flat, his clothes in a pitiful plastic carrier bag. I couldn't help but wonder if he'd be coming back at all and had to sit down again on a bench whilst I composed myself. It was terrifying, how much I needed him. Even now. 

~ 

Sherlock was sat opposite me, and I didn't understand a blind word of what he was saying.  
 I'd been shocked at how tired he looked when I'd first walked in, after just one night in the cells. His hair was even more unruly than usual and he had dark rings beneath his eyes, at stark contrast to the rest of his pale skin. His clothes were rumpled, and his wrists looked raw from the cuffs he'd worn yesterday. Lestrade had let him take them off, to see me.

We'd just finished talking about his case, and I was panicking, though I tried not to show it. The shoes and the syringes were pretty significant pieces of evidence, I knew that. Everything else was just bloody unlucky, but it all counted against him.   
"Do stop trying to compose yourself, John." He uttered, pursing his lips. "You look rather like a bad ventriloquist dummy."  
I ignored him. "Look - I can testify." I began, a hopeful edge to my voice. "I know about the gloves, and you were with me all day before Anne Pirthsee's death. That's your alibi.  _I'm_  your bloody alibi."  
Even as I was speaking, he was already shaking his head, curls darker in the harsh light.   
"The prosecution will use our relationship against me. Perhaps they'll even suggest that we were in it together. There is evidence that you would lie to suit my circumstances - breaking into Baskerville base, for example. And mourning me so publically-"  
I winced at the reference, and looked at my hands, curling my fingers into fists on the metal table.  
"- will not have gone unnoticed. They'll play on the depth of your devotion and your testimony will be worth next to nothing."

To hear him dismissing my help so flatly was infuriating, but as always, I knew he was right.  
"Well-" I began again, but he cut me off, rather unexpectedly leaning forwards and taking my hands in both of his. I flinched, and leaned back slightly, my brow crinkling in bemusement as I looked down at them. His fingers were soft and cool on mine.   
"I need you to focus, John. Now." He was saying, and his tone was sharp. I nodded, still confused, not daring to move.  
 _What the hell is he doing?_  
My heart had begun to hammer in my chest, and I too found myself leaning forwards. Sherlock glanced at the screen to the left, through which we might be scrutinized.

He squeezed my hand, once.  
"Three things. I would like you to go home and take care of yourself. Do not break. I do not like to think of you suffering, John and especially not on my behalf. That is the first." He was speaking weirdly, his words somehow now flat with strange emphasis and the squeeze on my hand came once more, hard and obviously trying to get my attention.

I blinked at him.  
"For the second, perhaps think about calling a lawyer. I daresay representing myself in this kind of case would not be successful. An objective eye is key." He paused, as if in thought. "You look awfully pale. Perhaps-"  
He squeezed my hand again, so hard this time that I almost gave an indignant gasp, but bit it back. Instead I looked at him, bloody lost.  
"Tea? It always seems to help you. I locked onto that within the first week of our meeting."

Seeming to be finished, he freed my hands and leaned back in his chair, fixing me with an unfathomable stare that made me think I'd missed something.

_What are you trying to tell me?_ I wanted to yell, exasperated.  _Trust me, I want to bloody help._  
After a few moments, he smiled, and stood up.  
"Lestrade. We're finished here. I trust that John has things to be getting on with."

~ 

Back at the flat, I wracked my brains, going over and over what he'd said. I'd written it all down as best I could from memory, but none of it was making much sense. Talking about my well-being and hiring a lawyer were two things that Sherlock would never do, and I couldn't bring myself to call a solicitor. And the comment about tea was just out of place. I'd got the references to 'lock' and 'key'.. but what did that mean by itself? Bloody nothing.

I sat back, exasperated in my chair and closed my eyes. Notes were strewn around me, and Mary would probably be annoyed if she wasn't still at work.

Come on, I pleaded with myself. Think. What would he do? What would Sherlock do?  
That was a stupid question, I decided. He'd just know instantly, like he bloody always did. But I had to try. 

I tried to take myself back to the room, to Sherlock's hands on mine, closing my eyes and reliving it as I spoke his words quietly.  
 _"Three things.."_  
He'd squeezed my hand. I frowned, hit by a thought. He'd squeezed my hand three times, actually. One at the beginning of each 'thing'. Did that mean something?

Why else would he need to hold my hand?  
Alright, I told myself, following this bloody ridiculous train of thought. At which points did he squeeze my hand? I really had to concentrate, the words all fusing together in my mind, the memory becoming hazed.  
"Three things.." _Squeeze_.  
"For the second.." _Squeeze._  
"Tea?" _Squeeze._  
Three things for the second tea? No, no, that had to be wrong. Perhaps the squeezing was before the 'for'..   
 _Three things for tea?_  
It made more sense, but still, no. I gave a cry of frustration and set my face in my hands, so sure that I'd been onto something.

And then it hit me.  
Three For Tea.  
 _Three Forty. 3.40._

He wanted me to do something at three forty. I glanced at the clock, standing up, my heart hammering. It was already half past four, and I'd taken most of the day to get here. 

_He must mean the morning_ , I told myself, not wanting to think that I'd let him down already.  _He knows me._  
It was the best chance I had.

~ 

Mary came home at 5, and we got a takeaway. She was too tired to cook, and I was too wired. She noticed, but gratefully didn't say a word. I sat with her, and we watched television until 11. Of course, she asked about seeing Sherlock and I managed to sort of skim over it all, knowing that talking about it would make me feel even more uneasy than I already did.  
 _What exactly do you want me to do?_  I wanted to ask him, but of course, there was no way. My fingers continued to tap, tap, tap on the arm of the chair until Mary announced that she was going to bed, hovering for me to join her. I did.  
I laid awake, counting the minutes on the clock. Soon enough, her breathing grew soft and level and I knew that I could probably sneak out with no problem.   
So, I did.  
At 3.15AM, I slipped out of bed and got dressed, my heart racing in my chest. All the time, I cursed Sherlock in my mind, cursed him for getting himself into such a bloody mess and for not giving me any proper way to get him out of it.  _God, I have no idea what I'm doing,_ I thought, creeping out of the front door and locking it, before heading down the stairs.  _So, hell, I hope you do._

~

I arrived at the station at 3.36AM, and tried my best not to look out of place as I hovered outside the doors, wishing I had a cigarette to smoke. Anything. Eventually, I pulled out my phone and read his old texts, as if they'd somehow give me a clue to what I was supposed to do. I was half hoping that he'd just bloody appear, but of course, that would be much too convenient.

At 3.39, I'd become restless and agitated, and glanced over to the glass doors, pulling my jacket tighter around myself. It was a cold morning, and still dark. As I watched, the female officer behind the desk stood and took a mug with her into the back room, which I took as a small staff room or kitchenette. My phone clock hit 3.40 and I was exasperated and utterly clueless. Tucking my phone away, I glanced around, muttered, 

 "Oh, to hell with it-" and ran for the doors. 

Inside, there were thankfully no more officers, but I could hear the woman clattering around in the staff room. My heart was racing and my legs felt leaden, shaking as I hurriedly leaned over her desk.  " _Shit, shit, shit, shit.."_  
There were several screens, and each showed a cell. My eyes found Sherlock's within a matter of seconds - cell 7 - and I tugged the solid, numbered key from it's pigeonhole, before pulling the wire from the back of that monitor. My heart was in my mouth, and I was cursing him again in my head, every bad word I knew running through my mind in my fear and panic. And then I ran. 

 


	8. The Streets Are Calling

The day has passed excruciatingly slowly and I am pacing the cell again, tense. I have faith in John, but I suddenly fear that he did not decode my message and thus has not done what I asked of him.  
For a moment, I wonder if he has called a lawyer and is sitting obliviously in his armchair, drinking a cup of tea. The thought momentarily stops my pacing and I frown, before shaking the idea from my mind. Of course not. It would be utterly ludicrous for me to ask such banal things of him. John should know better than that.  
There is a clock on my cell wall, high above the door. The hands reach 3.40 and I am narrowing my eyes, my heart beginning to pound and disappointment already flowering within me. And then I hear it.  
Hurried footsteps echoing down the corridor. The clank of metal, a scraping against my door - and then the entire bracket turns, twists and it is opening.   
I have to suppress a bark of incredulous laughter at John's expression. He appears utterly terrified, and the cell key shakes in his hands. His eyes find mine, and he is relieved. I fold my suit jacket neatly over the crook of my arm and walk past him, my words a curt, breezy greeting.  
"I see you got my message."  
  
~  
  
He jogs to catch up with me, having been seemingly frozen at my cell door, and is tugging at my arm.  
"Stop! She's out there, the receptionist-"  
"Relax." I interject, my voice low and deceivingly calm. "She'll take at least four minutes to make the coffee. Often stops for a biscuit, too. And she's a female  _officer_ , John, do be fair."  
Everything here is done with strict monotony and routine. The night before, Lestrade had been wearily guiding me back to my cell, and we had stopped at reception for the woman to 'check me in', so to speak. I immediately deduced that she suffered from terrible pollen allergies, and that she takes her tablets at the same time every evening. She checked the clock extremely regularly, even in the few minutes that we were stood by her, and as the hand hits the eight, heads into the side room to make coffee. It is a risk, but her general harried and slightly obsessive compulsive nature suggests that she will do the same the next night.  
And so I give the time to John. I hope that he will know what to do.  
He has not disappointed me.  
"How the _hell_  do you-"  
"Please, John." I dismiss. Surely he knows me well enough now to know the answer to that question? I roll my eyes. 

We reach the reception area, and John is frozen again, his eyes scanning the room. I cannot afford such a pause, and immediately glide behind the desk, ready to get to work. The coffee mug steams on a stained coaster, and I know that we have minutes at most. Rather exasperatedly, I see that John has yanked the cord from my cell monitor, and I reconnect it with the wire of cell 6. It is likely that he was trying to help, but a blank monitor will of course attract her attention. I have switched my monitor image to that of the next room along, and consequently switch the next to an empty cell.  
It all looks as it would have before, and by the time she notices, I daresay it will be too late.   
As extra insurance, I delve into the desk drawer and find the antihistamines, placing another into the coffee. I hear, rather than see John's jaw drop and almost roll my eyes at his outrage, a likely consequence of his medical professionalism.  
I sweep back out from behind the desk and head for the door, John stumbling after me with a murderous expression.

"You  _can't just_ -" He hisses, roughly grabbing my shoulder and I shake him off, already outside.  
"She'll merely be drowsy." I counter, glancing back with annoyance. "Are you coming, or would you rather stay and be imprisoned in my place?"  
He is shaking his head, cursing me under his breath as he looks back at the desk, but he runs along beside me anyway.  
I smile, and we begin to make our way through the streets. 

~ 

We have been running for ten minutes; swerving around corners and dodging through alleyways. I know London like the back of my hand, and yet what happens next cannot be avoided by any level of geographical knowledge.  
At the end of the road that we sprint down, a black car is squealing to a stop and the doors are thrown open. Four men clamber out and are running at us, and instantly I know that my adversary has sent them here. To retrieve me.  
"John-" I can barely say his name before they are on me, fists finding soft flesh and knuckles connecting with my mouth. I am spitting blood onto the concrete, and John is trying to fight. I know that I could take down one of these men, and John another, but there are four. We are outnumbered, and it outrages me.  
I feel a heavy boot in my side, and a choked gasp escapes my throat, much to my chagrin. Rough hands are on my upper arms, and I am being hauled to my feet. They aim to put me into the car, but I fight against them, and I hear John scream my name. The sound is distant, and the evening seems to haze dizzily in my mind.  
And then, one gunshot.

~

 


	9. Bloody Confrontation

My ribs had already started to ache from the run when the bloody car had come out of nowhere, stopping in front of us. It happened fast - the men poured out like spiders and attacked us both, a mess of hard fists and black uniforms. My heart raced in my chest and I called Sherlock's name, voice desperate as it left my throat. They were dragging him off to the car, and already I could see blood on his face, could see that he was disoriented. They had the advantage of surprise, not to mention outnumbering us, and maybe if there hadn't have been four of them, we might have had some chance.  
Finally - and I bloody cursed myself for realising so late - I reached for my gun, tugging it from my waistband and twisting out of the grip of the thug that held me.  Of course, I'd brought it with me. I always did, when I was with Sherlock.

The warning shot cracked from the weapon and the sound ricocheted from the walls so closely packed around us.  
The men only hesitated, but that was all that I needed. Heart in my mouth, I sent a knee to the crotch of the thug in front, almost feeling his pain as I dodged past.   
 _"Let go of him!"_ I stuck my gun into the faces of the remaining three, grimacing angrily as they propped up a bleeding Sherlock, already half stuffed into the car. "You heard me!"   
They called my bluff. Determined to prove how serious I was, I fired one reluctant shot into the foot of the man nearest and in the screaming pandemonium that followed, grabbed at Sherlock, pointing my gun at the others as we hobbled off into a side alley. I had no doubts that they'd be following as soon as possible and the thought sent a white hot jolt of fear through me.  
"Can you walk? Sherlock? I need you to run!"  
"I'm  _fine_ , John." But his words were slurred, and I frowned in concern, still pulling him along. 

~

After a few minutes, we passed a dull sign for a B & B and I hammered on the door, looking for any sort of protection or respite.

An elderly woman let us in and to his credit, Sherlock tried to straighten and turned his face away to hide the blood.   
"We need a room." My voice sounded alien, twisted and false from my panic.  _Too_  nice. Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently at me and the woman asked our names, fetching a notebook from a desk by the door. After giving some false alias that neither of us would probably remember and a handful of notes, she gave us a pointed look -  _We're not gay,_  I would have said; if I hadn't been so on edge. She pressed a key into my hand.

"This was an apt choice," Sherlock murmured, dabbing at his bloodied mouth as we reached the room, all worn curtains and patchwork quilt. One bed. _Of course._  
"There's a taxi rank around the corner," He continued, and I brought a hand to my mouth as I paced anxiously, not listening. "That would have been the obvious place to run."  
I hadn't even thought about that. I'd just been blind in my panic, already hearing the thundering of boots behind us.

And suddenly, anger was fluttering in my stomach - an indignant rage about what he'd gotten himself into. What he'd made me do.

If he was going to prison for this, then so was I.  _Bloody hell. You've done it this time._

It burst out of me before I could stop it, through gritted teeth.  
"I should be at home right now. With Mary. I should be with Mary,  _my fiancee._ "   
 _And instead, I'm here with you. Dealing with this sort of thing - again._

"You're welcome." He replied curtly, and I nearly lost it, spinning to face him.

"You've never bloody liked her," I spat, " _Have_ you?!" I continued, throwing my arms up as I spoke, absolutely livid.  
"Because you feel like she's replacing you! Because you come back, all grand bloody entrances and look-at-me-I'm-Sherlock-Holmes and I don't give you the same  _attention._ "

"Attention?" Sherlock turned swiftly, the cut on his lip cracking again as he grimaces at me. "Is that all you think that I  _require_ you for?  You don't think that I could find an enraptured audience elsewhere, John?"

"Well go on then!" I yelled, "Go and find one! Get someone else to marvel at your bloody tricks and break you out of prison. Jesus Christ, Sherlock - I can't keep _doing_ this! If you go down for this, so do I. None of this is my-"

"Your fault?" 

His words slipped icily from his lips, and he straightened, narrowing his eyes. He pulled his suit jacket tighter around himself and fiddled with the button, his expression cool. "Are you implying that this is  _my_  fault?"

I didn't answer, turning away from him with an exasperated expression and running my hands through my hair. I could already feel the aching pressure of a black eye from the thug attack, and tried to focus on that, rather than my anger. Sherlock continued, voice dangerously soft.

"Perhaps that I am responsible for the Pirthsee murders? I imagine that you are considering whether you truly know me any more.. "  
He begins to pace slowly, dragging his fingers along the dusty edge of the dresser.   
"Could it be that since my return, I have developed a taste for the  _other side_  of my profession? Am I a  _murderer_ , John?"

His words lilted coolly in the stale air of the room, the tension thick and humid.

Eventually, my eyes found his, and I scrutinized him for a few moments, my rage ebbing.

"No." I whispered with an air of defiance. Sherlock barely missed a beat. 

"Well, of course not." He rolled his eyes and spat the words, clearly hurt by my pause. The tension dissipated slightly and I frowned.  _I can't bloody win._ Sherlock turned, snatched a pad and a pen from the desk and began to write something. I let my head fall into my hands and sat gingerly on the bed, waiting resignedly. 

"It's been a con from the start." He hisses, pacing back over to me with the scrap of paper stretched taut between his two hands. "Both of them. To get me. We have been truly manipulated, John and-" He raised his voice slightly, his eyes angry as they settled on mine, "-I find it  _extremely_  inconvenient for you to be doubting me  _now._ "  His sentence hangs as if unfinished, and I feel like he might have said something else, if he'd had the courage.

Blinking, I tried to focus on the scrawled words and my jaw drops with a 'pop'. Anagrams. 

TOM PIRTHSEE =

THE IMPOSTER 

ANNE PIRTHSEE =

THE NAPE RESIN 

From the very beginning, whoever had done it had been mocking us. Manipulating the evidence, the circumstances. Leaving bloody clues even in the victim's names. Sneaking into the flat. _God, who the hell was 'Anne Pirthsee', then?!_

Suddenly, I felt awful. Bloody awful for letting myself get taken in by doubt, for being selfish. 

~

"Sherlock, I.."  
"I figured them out in the cell, last night." He interjected, his voice low. He was facing away, and I could see him pressing his fingers gingerly to his torso, probably trying to gauge the extent of his injuries. Our shouting match wouldn't have made his bust lip any better, either.  
Abashed, I went into the bathroom and returned a few moments later with some small, white towels and a basin of warm water.  
"Come here." My voice was quiet, and surprisingly he did as I asked, shrugging out of his suit jacket with a wince and taking a slow step towards where I sat. 

~ 


	10. The Taste of Copper

John is feeling remorseful, and I choose to let him tend to my injuries. I could keep a stony silence for hours, merely to satisfy my own bruised pride; and yet something tells me that it would undoubtedly make things worse.

The silence is thicker now, almost overwhelming in the aftermath of our argument. Everything has been said. He has touched upon my disdain for his _wife_ , near accused me of ruining his marital life and almost flippantly suggested my involvement in a double murder.  
Of course, he now realises his mistake. Somehow, it is little comfort.

At his request, I gingerly unbutton my shirt, trying not to wince as I let it fall from my shoulders. We both look down at my torso, myself with an air of annoyance, and John with a measured medical consideration. My pale skin is flawed; a deep graze scratches across my chest, speckled with drying blood. It will serve as a reminder of being dragged across the concrete, the large and flowering purple bruise on my side a quaint memory of being kicked heavily in the side.   
I give a frustrated sigh, purse my lips and taste copper. My lip is still bleeding, then. 

His argumentative side seems to have finally ebbed, and John says nothing as he dips a white towel in warm water. He wrings it and presses the material to my grazed chest, and I hiss through my teeth at the drag on the broken skin.  
"Oh, be quiet." John chides, his voice soft. I can sense that he wants to say something, and yet somehow I do not want him to speak.  
The silence is rather calming after our chaotic escape and subsequent row, with only the gentle sloshing of the water in the basin as he continues to dab at my chest.   
"I wish I had some antiseptic." He says, and I don't answer, my eyes still resting on the basin. John continues moments later, his voice slightly lower and he pauses, wringing the towel between his hands.  
"I missed you, you know."  
For a moment, I think he means last night. My stay in the cells. Of course, he is referring to the three years that I sacrificed.  
"Yes." I answer simply. "I know." And he tosses the wet towel at me rather hard, rolling his eyes.  
I cannot help but smile, and the gesture pulls at my split lip once more. Immediately, I frown, my fingers rising to press to the small gash, and they come away crimson.

"Wait - let me." John takes the towel once more, curling it tightly in his hand and stepping closer, a concerned concentration in his eyes. 

I don't understand why at first, but my heart begins to thrum in my chest. He stands within inches of me, the towel a gentle pressure as he dabs at my lip, and one of his hands is on my arm, steadying himself.   
I freeze, and my eyes flick bemusedly to his. John pauses, lowering the towel infinitesimally and his gaze is suddenly darkening on mine.

Hidden sentiment - _forbidden_ sentiment - flickers between us, and the air is crackling with humid electricity.  
 _Never before have I.. To even consider.. John is my.. He could never.._

An experiment. I step forward, lean down, and press my lips carefully to his.

 


	11. Faith and Escape

My body responded before I could help it, heart racing in my chest and my mouth moving on Sherlock's. The towel dropped from between my fingers, and my hands found my friend's face, pulling him closer almost instinctively.   
All at once, I heard Sherlock's breath hitch in his throat, and his hands were on my waist, pushing me backwards. My back found the wall, the heavy thud rattling the sparse ornaments strewn about the room, and my fingers twined in Sherlock's hair. 

_"John.._ "  
Sherlock murmured my name breathlessly against my lips, and the action sent a shudder through me, one hand curling tighter into Sherlock's curls whilst the other slammed onto the dresser beside us with a rattle.   
And then all at once, I realised where I was. Who I was with. What was happening.  
I broke the kiss, turning my head, my words anxious and breathy when they came. "No.. No - I.."  
I extricated himself from my friend's grip and staggered away, my eyes wild.   
What about Mary? What have I done? What am I doing?

I brought a hand to my face, shaking as I stumbled across the room, leaning heavily against the door.  
"I have to go." I said quietly, voice hoarse. My heart still hammered in my chest, and I felt a strange ache in my chest when Sherlock's expression fell slightly. "I'm.. I'm sorry. Sherlock-"

Sherlock held up a hand and shook his head once, biting his lip. He knew. Of course, he knew.

"Mary." I said weakly, by way of explanation, before adding, "Stay here. I'll.. Help sort this out." I swallowed.  
"The - the police, I mean. But.. but stay here."  
I paused, wanting to say something else, to apologise again, to ask why this hadn't happened bloody years ago, when he'd had the chance. But nothing came. 

Sherlock's blue eyes stayed resolutely fixed on the carpet, and I sheepishly ducked out of the room, half running down the stairs and past the staring old woman, out into the dim light of the early morning. 

~ 

Half of my mind had screamed at me to go back, even before I was in the cab and on the way to Baker Street. In the quiet calm of the taxi, my heart continued to thud almost painfully and I raised my fingers to my lips, utterly shocked. I could still taste the metallic tang of blood, and it almost turned my stomach.   
What was I thinking? I'm engaged. And he's Sherlock. Bloody Sherlock! I shook my head, pressing my face into my hands, torn.

Finally, I arrived back at the flat, walking up the stairs with shaking, leaden legs and an even heavier heart.  
 _I have Mary,_  I thought.  _She's all that I need. I love her. We're going to get married. He's too late._

As I unlocked the door and wearily stepped inside, I was instantly bemused.  
"Mary?" My voice was a breath in the silence as I took in the sight. Mary stood, dressed in a sharply fitting black dress, blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders. She turned from the window as I entered, a rather surprised smile crossing lips that were ringed in red.  
The man beside her turned too, and I immediately recognised him from our assault earlier - one of the car thugs. He was still decked head to toe in black uniform, and started towards me as soon as he noticed me.  
"No.." I breathed, an icy panic flooding me as I stood. Everything clicked. "You.." I choked weakly, and Mary laughed.  
"Me!" She trilled, and I was tackled to the floor, rough hands sending my head slamming into the floorboards.  
"Be careful, Seb!" Mary crooned, and I faded into blackness.

 

~


	12. Alone in Thought

I sit in the dim hotel room, remaining as I have been since he left. 

 

My hands twine meekly around the damp towel, and I stare morosely at the walls, aware that I am supposed to stay here until further notice.

I am not safe here. I am not safe anywhere. Not even with John, anymore.  
It is heartening that he assumes that I will heed his command, and merely sit in this room. Await what is likely to be some discussion with the police, perhaps even a plea bargain. I will be expected to give one of my speeches, to debunk the evidence against me.   
And then we will all go home; John, Mary and I. It will be disgustingly happy and hateful.

Except I know, better than perhaps they do, that this will not happen.  
In fact, I think I'd rather go to prison.

My fingers tighten on the towel and I close my eyes, grimacing at the memory of the impassioned kiss. It is not an entirely unpleasant memory; I realised rather quickly that John has feelings for me. His reactions would be clear to even the common man; the quickening heartbeat, his hands in my hair and the movement of his lips against mine. And still, I curse myself for my ill timing.  
But then, his wedding swiftly approaches. If not now, then when?

~

Twenty laborious minutes pass, and I am sure that John is at the flat by now. I torment myself for a few minutes, imagining his reunion with Mary; tearful embraces and the reinstatement of domestic bliss. And then I run my hands through my hair, curse myself and stand, pushing the thoughts from my mind.  
Dwelling on such a situation will have no productive purpose, and I have to put my brain to better use; perhaps to ensure my freedom. I steeple my fingers at my lips and sit atop the bathroom counter, rather than the bed - careful not to destroy my concentration with a certain recent memory.

 

I enter my mind palace, though I already feel more sluggish than usual. With an impatient shake of my head, I decide that love  _is_  a dangerous disadvantage, as I have always dismissed. And now, ironically, I myself feel the constricting wrath of the phenomenon. 

I force myself to think.

The perpetrator would need access to the flat; to plant the syringes and take the shoes - and access to the police station; to crack into my locker. I dismiss my first conclusion of a police officer - no signs of a break in at the flat. Though of course they would be able to do this expertly, I am better. Countless crime scenes have only enhanced my eye for detail.  
So the perpetrator would have been able to simply walk into the flat - and undoubtedly, any one of our acquaintances would not be out of place in a police station. It is slightly unsettling to consider one so close as the perpetrator. To suggest that I have been blind to the signs for any stretch of time is insulting to me.. and yet, this seems the only possible solution.  
Lestrade? Anderson? Donovan? Mrs Hudson? Mycroft?  
My theories get thinner, more obtuse with each suspicion and I am sighing, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes.   
Mrs. Hudson is a ridiculous idea. Anderson and Donovan are too impatient, too  _normal_. Lestrade and Mycroft certainly have the manpower for such a thing - of course, I have deduced by now that the perpetrator has help. Most likely a band of faithful followers. The Anne Pirthsee actress proves such a thing, and I grimace at the reminder that I missed the woman's carefully constructed facade.  
Lestrade has no motive. Mycroft hasn't the time, or the disposition. We may fight like children, but he is above putting me in prison.  
No - whoever is responsible would have  _gained something_ from having me incarcerated.

It hits me like a truck, and I jump, smashing backwards into the bathroom mirror and sending toiletries clattering into the sink.  
I do not care. My heart is already sputtering in my chest, and I am throwing myself from the counter, barely pausing to put on my shoes before I tear open the door and head down the stairs.

  
I know who is behind this.

I am an imbecile, an idiot.  
And I am on my way.

 

 

~


	13. Who Are You?

When I came round, my head throbbed painfully and my wrists and shoulders were taut and aching. It took me a few moments to blink through the darkened haze and realise that I was tied to a chair, thick cords binding my hands behind the wooden slats.   
Mary stood in front of me, her fingers trailing over Sherlock's desk as she smiled at me. The other guy - the one she'd called 'Seb' - still stood by the window, looking uninterestedly out at the street as he coiled the remaining cord between his fingers.  
A gun lay on the desk, a few centimetres from Mary's hand, and she followed my gaze with a sympathetic smile.  
"Awake now, are we darling?"  
It was odd, hearing her speak. She sounded like my Mary, and yet she wasn't. She never had been. I suddenly felt a pang for the woman that I thought I had known - cardigans and pink skirts, shopping in the sale section of Debenhams, having bacon and eggs together on Sunday mornings. All of it, a bloody bare-faced lie.  
"Why?" I rasped, trying and failing to flex my fingers behind my back. The cords were tight enough to stop my bloody circulation.  
"Why would you do this?"  
  
It all made sense, of course. Perfect bloody sense, at least for the crime. She would have been able to take Sherlock's shoes and hide the syringes. If she went to the police station, she'd just have to claim that she was picking up something of mine.  
 Every day that she'd been going to 'work'; had she been meeting with this 'Seb'? The group of men from the car? 'Anne Pirthsee'?

Even our conversation, the evening that Sherlock was arrested.. trying to convince me of his guilt.. to doubt him.  
A shiver ran through me as I thought about what might have happened if i'd believed her unreservedly. Let her stop me from seeing him, even. Well actually, I thought frowning, it can't get much worse than this.  
"Oh, sweetheart. It's a _very_  long story. I don't know if we have  _time_."

Her voice was sickly sweet, lilting as she reached across for the gun, dragging it across the desk.  
I grimaced at her, and spoke through gritted teeth. I was careful to keep my eyes from her fitted dress, the curve of her body.

Not the woman I knew. She'd never wear anything like it.  
"Then shorten it. Please."

~ 

I race out of the hotel, ignoring the elderly woman as I almost knock her over. I do not wait, I do not apologise. I am out of the door, and my side throbs painfully as I run, rasping breaths bursting from my throat.  
 _John. John. John._

His name pounds through my mind like beats of my heart, though at this moment my heart is racing, hammering a disjointed rhythm.  
The cab driver does not move as I dive into the back of the vehicle, merely looking back at me with his eyes wide.  
" _Drive._ " I yell breathlessly, and he jumps, though he still does not move the blasted car. His sunken eyes are suddenly bright with recognition, and I know immediately that I must be on the news, that he must have seen me.  
He lurches, reaching for a phone, and I pull John's gun from the waistband of my trousers. I had not registered taking it from the hotel room, but of course, I have.  
"Baker Street." I growl, my words are low in my throat. My thumb cocks the safety from the gun, and the man twitches perceptibly at the sound. He swallows and turns back to the wheel. The engine starts.

I am coming, John.

 


	14. Predatory Pacing

"Seb, darling. Go and stand outside the door. I can't have any policemen bursting in and ruining my story."  
The man laid the cord on the table and sauntered to the door, though I couldn't hear any sirens. I expected that Sherlock would be all over the news, but wouldn't Baker Street be the first place they'd look?  
Mary answered my silent question gleefully, her heels clacking on the wooden floor as she circled my chair. Her fingers stroked along my neck, and I gritted my teeth, feeling the depth of her betrayal.  
"I already took care of that,  _obviously_. Gave Lestrade a tearful phonecall. ' _Oh, Oh Greg, help! John's gone! They've run off together, I knew it! I k-knew it_!" Her voice was mocking, and she gave a trill of laughter. I grimaced, and she continued, giving my hair a ruffle.  
"Still, can't be too careful."  
  
It took her a few minutes to get into it. She sat on the desk, crossing one leg coquettishly over the other and smiling that bloody awful, red lipped smile. She didn't really look at me, her eyes on the ceiling in recollection, and I hated her, bloody hated her. I began to twist my wrists against their burning cord restraints to keep my mind busy.

"I always admired him, you know. Always!  _Sheeerlock Holmes_  on the news." She said his name with a reverence, a mocking inflection.  
"Always the hero of the hour. Uncouth, brilliant.. The untameable genius. He  _did_ something to me. Even then, my brother James and I loved him."  
 _James?_ Mary didn't even have a brother. Well, at least, I hadn't thought that she had.  
I glanced at her, perturbed.  
"Oh yes - you met, didn't you?" Her eyes seemed to glitter, and I swallowed. Not.. It couldn't be..  
"I had to change my name, of course." She added, matter of factly. "I expect even you would have cottoned on! Two Moriarty's."  
Jesus Christ. I barely had time to register my shock, and recoiled back from her slightly. Maniacs. Run in the family. Christ.  
She didn't seem to notice, now lost in her own story. She stood, her heels again slapping on the wood and her words were morose.  
"He got too close. Too involved." Her words dropped to a whisper, and I thought I could see just a flicker of grief in her eyes.  
"And of course, I had to have my revenge."  
I swallowed, before managing to rasp a "How-"  
"How did I know he wasn't dead? The whole underworld knew, darling." She dismissed my question with a flippant hand, beginning to circle me again like some predatory animal. "He had James' men shipped to prisons in the Middle East. No doubt with help from that powerful brother of his. Of course, it got very,  _very_  personal."

Her voice had dropped to a dangerous purr, and it made me feel nauseous. I still couldn't see her as what she was.. My Mary was stood in front of me, and yet she wasn't mine. Never had been. I gritted my teeth, my words bitter as I spat them.  
"So you were with me to get _close_  to him."

"At first. I grew fond of you." She passed another hand over my neck and I tried to wrench myself from her reach.

 "There was a point when I didn't think he'd ever come back. But he  _did_."  
Her nails suddenly dug into my skin, and I gasped, fairly sure that she'd drawn blood.

"And you know what?" She continued, her words seething. She removed her hand but her pacing quickened. "I thought it would be  _easy_. To make him jealous.  _Me_  with you. I mean - look at me." She gestured to her dress, her figure and I narrowed my eyes, shaking my head in exasperation.  _You're nothing like the Mary I knew. Nothing._  


"But you know what? He wasn't jealous of you. Oh,  _no_. He was jealous of  _me._ "

She seemed to hiss the words, and gave a bitter bleat of laughter. "Me! For being with  _you_."

All at once, she spun on her heel and her hands found the gun. She pointed it, unwavering, between my eyes and a strangled cry escaped my lips, my heart immediately beginning to hammer.  
"Because he fucking loves you." Her voice was ragged, desperate with rage, and she pressed the gun to my skin as if prompting me.  
"Doesn't he?  _Doesn't he?_ " She was shrieking and I was choking on my fear, unable to answer.

And then I heard his voice from the doorway. A calm baritone, cool and composed, his words hanging in the thick silence.

"He does."

 

 

~

 


	15. The Stand Off

Her eyes flick to me in surprise, and find the barrel of the gun that I hold outstretched towards her.  Swiftly, she straightens and much to my relief, her own gun is pointed at me. John has heard my voice, and he struggles against his restraints, trying to turn to look at me.  
I had heard the last part of her story, cursing myself even further for being blind to her betrayal and clear links to the criminal underworld. Obviously, she takes after her brother in the art of deception. Perhaps it was my good instinct to instantly dislike her, though secretly I imagine that I would not have taken to any girlfriend of John's.   
  
"Well, well." She says now, and her voice is a rasping drawl, her eyes excited. "Isn't this convenient?"  
  
"I do live here." I point out curtly, trying to keep my voice level. I am holding the gun in my right hand, and my left fingers twitch by my side. She catches the movement, and smiles. She is good, I can tell. My heart thuds steadily in my chest, and I try to think; is she on a suicide mission? Has this lengthy betrayal been leading up to my murder, or had she merely made a botched attempt to incarcerate me?  
  
"You won't be living anywhere after this evening." She replies, shifting her weight from one foot to another as she stands, the gun still pointed at my chest. We are standing at odds, and I remember a similar exchange with her brother and his sniper. The thought reminds me; I merely knocked him out cold and bound his hands downstairs, but she does not know that.

 

"I do hope Sebastian says hello to James for you." I quip, and a flicker of rage runs through her expression. Her finger visibly tightens on the trigger of the gun, and I mirror the action.

"Don't you say his name." She spits, and John struggles against his restraints, cranes his neck to try and see me.

  
"Sherlock.." He murmurs in warning, and I ignore him. Keeping her eyes on mine, Mary reaches across to his chair, turning it roughly on the wooden floor. John's eyes meet mine at last, and he is pleading with me. For what, I do not know. I cannot escape now any more than he can. Regardless, I would not leave him.

 

"Thought I'd let your boyfriend see your execution." Mary hisses, her face still contorted in a raging grimace at my mention of Moriarty. I raise an eyebrow.

"You plan to execute me?" I say coolly, my own hand shifting slightly around the gun and drawing attention to it.  
"And how does this work? Of course, as soon as I realised that this.. mediocre attempt.. was you, I called the police. You have minutes at best."

She analyses my expression for a moment, before replying simply "I don't believe you."  
She keeps the gun trained on me, and takes a step closer to John. He visibly recoils from her as she leans down, pressing a painted red kiss to the skin of his neck. Of course, her eyes are fixed on me throughout. I have to try rather hard not to let my face betray my revulsion. "And why does it matter?" She whispers against John's skin, and he tries to pull away. I have seen him, rubbing at the cord tie behind his back, and I imagine that he will be able to snap it soon. "What do I have to lose?"

A sharp and unsettling realisation runs through me at her words, and I am scrutinising her.  _Of course._  
She has given herself to the cause so completely - since her brother's death, she has been obsessed with taking me down. Securing vengeance. Even committing to a year and a half of a new life with John, every day pretending to be a woman that she was not.   
She seems to follow my train of thought, and straightens slightly, the gun still pointed at me though she keeps a hand firmly on John's shoulder.

  
"I wanted to see your mind rot in prison." She says quietly, and her voice is shaking with rage and the depth of her hatred. "I think that would have been a fitting demise. God, I would have loved to see that. You. Going  _mad."_

_Like you have,_  I think, but I do not speak. She continues, spitting the words like venom.

"But you ruined it, didn't you? You had to be clever, and fucking ruin it all."

Mary laughs, a bitter chuckle that resonates through the apartment, and she is leaning back over John.  
"The joke's on you, Sherlock." She rasps, and in a second, she has the gun pointed at John's skull, finger skimming over the trigger.  
I jolt, and step forward, my eyes widening slightly. My mouth is dry and I swallow. She cackles again. I have cracked; shown emotion and she is so clearly enjoying my anguish. John gives a strangled gasp, and his eyes meet mine.

A wordless look of panic, then understanding, passes between us.

"My brother once told you that he'd burn the heart out of you." Mary continues, still maddeningly gleeful as she looks at me.   
"And look at that. I have the perfect.. little..  _fuse_."

  
She smiles again, too sweetly, and I know that she will pull the trigger.   
It all happens very quickly, though it feels as if I am moving through heavy water, my movements weighted and slow.  
John twists out of her grasp, snapping the cord and his hands find the gun and turn it away from her. The sudden jolt surprises her, so caught up in her bravado, and as I fire a shot intended for her thigh - merely to immobilise - she dips and the bullet sinks into her stomach.

She is screaming, and John is scrabbling for the gun in her fingertips. He cannot quite reach it, his ankles still bound to the chair.   
Mary twists towards me and her expression is venomous.

Her gun fires, and the sound of the shot resounds around the room. Pain flowers in my chest, and I am falling backwards.   
I hear the pounding of boots, yelling and more gunshots and I know that the police are here. The throbbing ache and a curtain of darkness engulfs me.

I am cold. So very cold.  
My last thought is for John, and through the darkness I can hear him calling my name in return.   
He sounds unhappy. I do not want him to be unhappy.

 


	16. Roses and Rain

I sat in the church and fiddled with the collar of my shirt. It felt too tight, suffocating in the humid heat and I tried half-desperately to unclasp another button. I couldn't believe that it was the funeral. So soon. 

 

Inside, I felt ragged. The reminders of that night were everywhere. The jagged marks that the cord ties had left on my wrists. The mahogany coffin at the head of the church. The aching nightmares that were sure to plague me for years; so much worse than Afghanistan.

I sat alone on the wooden seats. The rest of the guests had already filtered out, as if knowing that I needed a little time alone before the cremation to come to terms with things. But I doubted that I would ever be able to do such a thing.

The betrayal. Oh, the sheer bloody injustice of it all. It was all my fault.  
I should have seen through it.

I felt more alone that I'd felt in a long time, and as that thought hit me, my lip trembled and the tears threatened to spill over my eyelids. Hurriedly, I looked down at the ragged bouquet I held. Roses. I was going to put it on the coffin for the cremation. It seemed right.

_Oh God, I can't do this._  

 

 

As the words ran through my mind, the heavy doors behind me opened and closed with a clanging thud, and I tried to compose myself as the fractured, shuffling footsteps made their way over to me.

  
"John."  
Sherlock placed a hand on my back, and I hurriedly swiped a hand across my eyes before standing, turning to face my friend.  
"I told you not to leave the hospital," I chided weakly, "I was going to come back in an hour or so."

Sherlock smiled, though I could tell that the pain was still rife. He was dressed in his best suit, but the shadow of the thick bandaging could be seen through his white shirt. He must have discharged himself to come, I thought with a mixture of concern and deep gratitude.  
"I couldn't let you go through this alone, could I?"

We had asked Lestrade not to reveal Mary's true identity to the world, but not only to save me the crippling humiliation of being so ruthlessly conned. She had oblivious friends who wanted to pay their respects. I too, felt a need to say goodbye properly - if only to the woman that I thought I had known. Of course, Sherlock faced no charges for killing her. She'd very nearly put an end to him first, and his shot had been both in self defence and intended only to temporarily disable her.

The memory of that night still put chills through me. Sherlock, falling backwards onto the wooden floor, the pale blue of his shirt slowly disappearing under a puddle of crimson. Mary had passed out almost immediately afterwards from her own injury, and as the police arrived, I had been screaming Sherlock's name, hands scrabbling desperately at the cord ties on my ankles, trying to reach him, to save him.  
I shuddered at the memory, and Sherlock took a step closer, lifting his arms with a wince to place them around me.

"I'm-"  
"If you're going to apologise again, I will personally put you into that burning chamber."  
"Sherlock.."  
"You couldn't have known. She was incredibly skilled at deception. John-" He leaned back with another wince, his voice uncharacteristically soft, though obviously reluctant to admit his mistake. "-  _I_  didn't even know."

I tried to take that as reassurance and gave a half smile. I felt so.. wrong.. mourning Mary, when our whole relationship had been a lie. A well constructed, believable lie, but a lie all the same.

A slow track began to play throughout the church, and the guests began to filter back inside. I put my arm gingerly around Sherlock and helped him into a seat beside me. I was touched that Sherlock had come just to support me, though I planned to confine him to his bedroom for bed rest as soon as we got back to the flat. It was a miracle that the bullet had missed his heart. I dreaded to think what might have happened if Mary hadn't been incapacitated when she'd taken that shot..

The cremation began, the coffin moving slowly beyond the doors, and I pursed my lips and swallowed uncomfortably. Behind them, the muffled sobs of the other mourners were audible, and I found myself shaking my head. How bloody clueless they all were. They didn't know her. No one had.  
My hand was resting on the wooden seat, and Sherlock gently took it into his own and squeezed. My heart thumped at the gesture, and I felt a lump in my throat as I looked to my friend. Our eyes met for a long few seconds, and consequently I missed the last few inches of the coffin's departure.

As the small doors closed and the music faded into silence, it was over. The other mourners began to depart again after a few moments, shuffling towards the doors with snatches of conversation and more muffled crying floating back to us. I stayed sitting with Sherlock until the entire church was empty. I realised rather soon after that I'd forgotten to place the roses on Mary's coffin, and I frowned, looking down at them.  
"Oh."   
"She doesn't need them where she's going." Sherlock drawled beside me, and I gave him a weary, pointed look. His hand was still on mine, and he squeezed it, the gesture somewhat softening his words. "Let's take them home." He added quietly.

I nodded but made no move to get up.  
"I'm so sorry, John." Sherlock began again after a few minutes, his voice suddenly hoarse and weak. I realised that he'd been putting on a front before, his composure for my benefit. Now, he was apologising both for my loss and for his own failings. For his hoax allowing me to get into a relationship with Mary. For returning and not seeing the signs. For killing the woman I thought was my fiancee. 

But it wasn't his fault, not really. Or mine, come to that.   
 _Don't apologise. It isn't your fault. You couldn't have done anything. And you saved my life._  
You always do, don't you? Some way or another.   
I thought about how differently it could have gone; if I'd died, or maybe he had. God knows, he had been close.  
Those fourteen hours in the hospital waiting room, broken up with police interviews, had been the longest of my life.

_I don't know what I'd do now, if I bloody lost you._  

I didn't know how to say any of it, or bloody all of it. I let the roses drop onto the seat, and turned to him, my hands gentle as they found his suit jacket collar.  
Sherlock leaned forward, kissing me before I had the chance to press my lips to his.  
I'm not alone anymore, I thought, and he seemed to know where my mind was.  
"You always had me." He murmured quietly, breaking away for just a moment. "Even.." He swallowed and met my eyes in earnest. I didn't think I'd ever seen Sherlock Holmes look nervous, and yet here it was. "Always, John." He finished, before leaning in to kiss me again.

Afterwards, we got up to go home. 

  
I knew that everything would be alright.  
We would buy carpet to cover the wooden floor, the blood stains. I'd still have nightmares, but Sherlock would pull me to his chest, and I would breathe through them. Try to forget the horror of that night. Try to forget that I ever bloody existed without him.

  
It had begun to rain outside the church, a sheeting downpour that drenched the mourners as they dashed, shrieking for the taxi rank around the corner. I sighed exaggeratedly at the thought of my expensive suit getting damaged. But honestly, I couldn't care less. Everything would be alright now. In one taxi ride, we could go home. Together. And desperately try to forget. We looked at each other, our hands still firmly entwined between us, and the corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked, amused by circumstance. I couldn't help but return the soft smile and tighten my grip on his hand.

And then we ran.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In The Alley](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1269160) by [Devisama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devisama/pseuds/Devisama)




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